


Absolution for the Damned

by downtheroadandupthehill



Series: Hell, Paved with Priests' Skulls [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, inspired by too many sexy Vikings promo photos, monastery AU, poorly written medieval dirty talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 23:38:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He listens to Enjolras swallow, thinks about the long line of his neck bobbing with nervousness. Grantaire swallows, too.<br/>“Covetousness of...a person,” Enjolras whispers. “Lust.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absolution for the Damned

Brother Grantaire fully intends on never sitting through Mass ever again, if he can get away with it. Abbot Valjean is indulgent enough with Grantaire’s murmured apologies, day after day, followed by one of his joyful sermons of forgiveness and love. The Prior is less so, however, and Grantaire tires of his speeches on hellfire and brimstone, or the everlasting toil of purgatory beside all of the unbaptized infants. In a narrow cell in a narrower bed, the lick of the flames haunts Grantaire’s dreams and he feels his skin sear and crackle and burn--until he wakes, covered in a layer of sweat. After these nightmares, he used to try and pray to God for mercy, for relief and His exalted forgiveness, but by now he’s given up on prayer. The Lord chooses those whom He has blessed, and Grantaire is certain that he is not one of them.

(Almost night and every day Grantaire has another sort of dream, but those will lead him to hell in the end, too.)

He can force himself through Matins--when he has not slept through them--and even the lethargy of Vespers, but Mass led by the Prior he cannot bear. His fear of damnation pricks at his soul, but after so much time he doubts even that. The Church will never be his Mother, despite the place Grantaire has carved out for himself in the monastery. Unwanted and unloved, but accepted by his brothers nonetheless, if not by God.

But he spends Wednesday’s mass curled in the confessional in the smaller chapel, on the side where the abbot or prior absolves them all from sin. The other side has a crucifix on the wall, the Son of God in His crown of thorns, hanging in agony. Grantaire cannot stand the sight of it watching him. No, he likes the bare austerity of the Abbot’s usual place, where there are no gilded Jesuses to stare down at him. 

He crowds himself on the short wooden bench, retrieves the decanter of altar wine from where he had tucked it in his tunic. Not consecrated, not yet, and if the monastery’s Cellarer, Brother Courfeyrac, notes a container of wine missing, he would not let it slip to their superiors.

One swallow, and then another, warming him down to his fingertips. He likes the closeness of the confessional, its sturdy mahogany walls and floor meticulously kept free of dust, although the overwhelming odor of incense permeates even this small, safe place. That, combined with the sour wine on his tongue and his throat, is enough to make Grantaire’s eyes water. He closes his eyes, and leans his head back against the wall.

The Abbot rarely takes confessions on Wednesdays, and no one will find him here.

.....

The creak of the door on the other side is what awakens him. Open and close, carefully, quietly as possible on ancient hinges, and Grantaire barely manages not to leap up and swear in surprise. Behind the square of screen that is meant to separate priest from penitent, a shadow falls. A thud, and then another, of a man lowering himself to his knees.

Grantaire’s eyes widen, and he tries not to panic. If he leaves now, he will surely be discovered--along with the decanter, now empty of wine--and punished for a week or more with some terrible chores that would only numb his mind further. He likes to illuminate their manuscripts, enjoys the way the paints stain his hands after laboring over a particularly colorful image, adding something _necessary_ to the paleness of his flesh from too long spent indoors. Moving on to manual labor like scrubbing the floors until his knuckles bleed, he thinks, will destroy the little patience he has remaining.

For now he simply leans back, as far away from the screen as possible. Perhaps he may fumble his way through this, and escape after bestowing a simple penance. No one would have to know.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” the man behind the screen says.

Grantaire feels his heart nearly seize, and he struggles for breath. He clutches his head in his hands and digs his fingernails into his scalp.

Surely this is some sort of divine punishment, for all of his sinful thoughts.

He wishes he could be anywhere but here. Even attending Mass would have been preferable to this new sort of hell.

He wishes he were still _drunk_ , and regrets the empty vessel of wine at his feet.

Brother Enjolras hesitates. “Father?”

And _why_ is Brother Enjolras of all people here to begin with? Grantaire has watched him long enough to know that he is entirely without sin, without fault, an angel from God Himself, most likely--the straight lines of his countenance and the gold of his curls make Grantaire believe in God, almost.

(Grantaire is always watching, while Enjolras’s eyes remain turned to God and heaven.)

“Yes, my son,” he finally mutters in an undertone, relying on the hoarseness of his voice from sleep to disguise him.

Enjolras, beloved of God. He would rise to the office of Abbot, one day, if not for his ideals. Censured by the bishop more than once, for speaking out against the sale of indulgences.

_Stealing money from those with so little, to line the pockets of priests in their greed,_ he has heard him rail in disgust more than once. But these tirades are no sins, so what does he have to confess?

“It has been six days since my last confession.”

Grantaire imagines what his other brothers might admit to, behind these walls. Brother Bahorel, and his exploits in whorehouses and alehouses, when sent on errands by the Abbot. Brother Courfeyrac’s hungry eyes on every townswoman in the local parish, and Brother Jehan, confessing his many blasphemies for seeing God in poetry and verses instead of in His true Word. It is common knowledge, Brother Bossuet and Brother Joly, the monastery’s barber-surgeon, share a mistress in the village.

Easy sins, with easy absolution.

He hears the clicking of wooden rosary beads, imagine them clutched hard in Enjolras’s fist.

“I am guilty of the sin of covetousness,” he says.

Grantaire tries not to take too long as he continues in his facade. He recalls his own confessions, the Abbot prodding him for elaboration of his numerous faults, and tries to act the same. It’s difficult, with the sound of Enjolras’s breathing so near to him. He imagine his golden head bowed low, and scalding blue eyes.

(Those eyes will send him to hell one day, he’s sure of it.)

“Tell me about this covetousness that is troubling you,” he tries, and hopes the awkwardness, the falsehood, is not too palpable.

He listens to Enjolras swallow, thinks about the long line of his neck bobbing with nervousness. Grantaire swallows, too.

“Covetousness of...a person,” Enjolras whispers. “Lust.”

Grantaire’s mouth is suddenly far too dry to form actual words, and he gives a sort of grunt instead. 

Enjolras takes it as a need to continue, and he does, in the same harsh whisper. “An unnatural lust for a--a man. Sodomy.”

He feels a strange surge of jealousy, for whatever man his Enjolras is lusting after. Despite this, he feels a heat building, low in his abdomen, a feeling that Grantaire is much more acquainted with. His palms begin to sweat, along with the rest of him. “You must bare all of your sins before God.” Grantaire forces out the words, with a sense of trepidation and almost morbid curiosity.

“I am gripped by the imaginings of his hands on me. My hands on him.” The words are as difficult for Enjolras as they are for Grantaire, and Grantaire admires him, almost, for even daring to take this to the confessional in the first place. Grantaire never would--his private lusts are his alone, but then Enjolras has always been far better than him. “In the darkness of my room, at night, I--”

Grantaire knows he needs to say something, here, but he cannot. He feels his cock begin to harden beneath his tunic, only _aching_ to be touched. He indulges his own desires far too often and is unused to denying himself this pleasure. With Enjolras’s voice in his ear, and the wall separating them--it would be all too easy for him to

and he barely bites back a gasp as he grazes a hand over himself, through the dark wool robe.

“How do I purge myself of these base desires?” Enjolras asks, intent. No longer the confused young man in bed, but the pious monk, and Grantaire would rid himself of the latter right now, if he can.

“Confess them to God, and He will forgive you.” _Tell me more about these base desires_ , Grantaire does not say, but he knows well enough what he is trying to accomplish.

Enjolras’s frustration is evident in the way he says, “Father,” through gritted teeth, and Grantaire wonders if this is worth pursuing.

(It is, of course, it is. His hand is steady on his cock now, but gentle too, through the rough fabric. His breathing quickens, and he tries to stifle it before he begins to pant in earnest.)

“I think of gripping his hair hard in my hands, while those blue eyes--” Enjolras groans, and Grantaire pretends it is a groan of lust rather than exasperation. Exasperated lust. “Father, _please,_ may I have my penance?”

But the way Enjolras pleads with him is too much, and Grantaire licks and then bites down hard on his lower lip--pretends it’s Enjolras licking and biting his lips, Enjolras’s hand moving up and down on him--and it’s been years since Grantaire has seen himself in a proper mirror, but he recalls his own eyes are blue, and it’s easy to pretend that

he strains not to buck his hips up into the curve of his hand

“Enjolras,” is all Grantaire can say, but no he doesn’t say it, he _moans_ it, and as the other man’s name leaves his red, bitten mouth, he knows the ruse is up.

“ _Brother Grantaire_?” 

Grantaire glimpses him, leaning in close to the screen to see in to his side of the confessional, but it is late and the chapel is dark enough, let alone the interior of this little wooden box. Blond hair glints off of the little light left, behind the screen, and Grantaire wonders what Enjolras can see of him. Does he see his hand rubbing his cock--quicker now that Enjolras had said his name aloud in that _wanting_ little gasp--and the way his head is thrown back, eyes barely open

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says again, between his heavy intakes of breath. “Confess to me your sins. God will forgive you, dear, angelic Enjolras.” The reverence of his words is greatly at odds with the strain of desire in his throat, but that’s how he’s always felt though, isn’t it? Adoration and that darker sin, that lechery. “Confess to me your sins,” he groans.

Enjolras shock switches quickly into something new, and his cautious whisper grows thick and husky. “It’s you I think of, Grantaire. Digging my fingernails into your back--”

Grantaire rakes his own fingernails up his thighs as he hikes up the length of his robes, hard enough to leave marks. A sharp intake of breath, now that it’s skin on skin, throwing himself into sin headfirst and

“Yes, Enjolras.” He can’t seem to stop saying the other man’s name. “I dream about taking you into my mouth, letting you take me--I don’t sleep at night--the burning of your hands on me--”

Enjolras moans his name, now, and Grantaire wishes he could see into that other cell, watch Enjolras take his cock in his hand and spit his name through wanting lips

He wants to be crowded the wall--to push back against him--and there’s no room to breathe except into each other’s skin--fingers and then Enjolras himself--

“I want you inside of me,” he says, but he’s been saying all of it, every filthy, greedy word. “I want--”

arches into his hand

and a sob of _Enjolras_ as he comes.

He’s keenly aware of what’s happening on the other side of the screen, as he slowly returns to himself. Enjolras’s grunts and then a little cry--

and the sound of their steadying breaths, in tandem with one another.

It doesn’t take Enjolras as long to recover, of course not, as Grantaire pulls his tunic back down over his legs and wipes his hand on its underside. The confessional door opens and snaps shut, while Enjolras hisses in an undertone that is hardly composed:

“Find a new place for your naps, Brother Grantaire. I shall have need of a true confession, tomorrow.”

He listens to Enjolras’s retreat across stone floors.

Grantaire would revel in his sin, and the carnal pleasure it has brought him, if he were not bringing his angel down into the dirt with him.

They both dream of a sweeter kind of hell, that night.

 


End file.
